Temptation Read Free Page A

because, let’s face it, it would also up her market value to have snagged David Armitage. Think about it – all going well, you’ll be taking six weeks off between series two and three. How long is it going to take you to knock out a pilot?’
    ‘Three weeks max.’
    ‘And the other three weeks, you sit on a beach somewhere, if you can actually sit still so long, thinking to yourself that you just made a quarter of a million in twenty-one days.’
    ‘All right – I’ll do the lunch.’
    ‘Smart guy. You’ll like her. She’s super-bright and beautiful.’
    Alison was right. Sally Birmingham was super-bright. And she was beautiful.
    Her assistant had called my assistant to set up the lunch date at The Ivy. Thanks to the usual tailback on the 10, I arrived a few minutes late. She was already seated at a very good table. She stood up to greet me, and I was instantly captivated (though I worked damn hard not to show it). Sally was tall, with high cheekbones, flawless skin, cropped light brown hair, and a mischievous smile. At first, I pegged her as the sort of dazzlingly patrician product of East Coast education and high-end breeding who undoubtedly hadher own horse by the age of ten. But fifteen minutes into our conversation, I realized that she had managed to undercut the Westchester County WASP background with a canny mixture of erudition and street smarts. Yes, she had been raised in Bedford. Yes, she had gone to Rosemary Hall and Princeton. But though she was ferociously well read – and something of a cinephile – she also had an astute understanding of Hollywood in all its internecine glory, and told me she actually delighted in playing the ‘player’ game. I could see why the big
cojones
at Fox Television so valued her: she was a class act, but one who spoke their language. And she also had the most amazing laugh.
    ‘Want to hear my favorite LA story?’ she asked me.
    ‘I’m game.’
    ‘All right – I was having lunch last month with Mia Morrison, head of corporate affairs at Fox. She calls the waiter over, and says: ‘So tell me your waters.’ The waiter, a real pro, doesn’t blanch. Instead he starts listing them: ‘Well, we’ve got Perrier from France, and Ballygowan from Ireland, and San Pellegrino from Italy . . . ’ Suddenly, Mia interrupts him: ‘Oh, no, not San Pellegrino. It’s too rich.’
    ‘I think I’ll steal that.’
    ‘“Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal.”’
    ‘Eliot?’
    ‘So you really did go to Dartmouth?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m impressed by your background research.’
    ‘I’m impressed by your knowledge of Mr Eliot.’
    ‘But surely you’ve picked up the references from “Four Quartets” throughout my show?’
    ‘I thought you’d be more of a “Waste Land” kind of guy.’
    ‘Nah – it’s too rich.’
    Not only did we have instant rapport, but we also talked widely about just about everything. Including marriage.
    ‘So,’ she said glancing at the ring on my finger, ‘are you married or are you
married
?’
    Her tone was light. I laughed.
    ‘I’m married,’ I said. ‘Without the italics.’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘Eleven years.’
    ‘That’s impressive. Happy?’
    I shrugged.
    ‘That’s not unusual,’ she said. ‘Especially after eleven years.’
    ‘You seeing someone now?’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
    ‘There was someone . . . but it was a minor diversion, nothing more. We both ended it around four months ago. Since then . . . just flying solo.’
    ‘You’ve never taken the conjugal plunge?’
    ‘No . . . though I could have done something disastrous – like marrying my boyfriend at Princeton. He certainly pushed the issue – but I told him that college marriages usually only have a two-year life span. In fact, most relationships burn out when passion turns prosaic . . . which is why I’ve never lasted more than three years with anyone.’
    ‘You mean, you don’t believe in all that “there is